Save You
by FiferRose
Summary: Eames dies suddenly in a freak accident. Arthur shuts down, but then he resents the hell out of Eames. Established Arthur/Eames slashy angst & Arthur/Cobb friendship. As cliche-free as possible.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N:  
****General:  
- **I want to get a feel for the reaction of this story before I post like crazy. I'll continue writing, regardless, because this story WANTS OUT OF MY BRAIN NAO.**  
**- This will be a multi-chapter story.  
- Song is Matthew Perryman Jones's "Save You". MUST LISTEN. :)

**Warnings:  
**- Major character death. That's pretty much the basis of the story.  
- Sadness! Angst!  
- Likely OOC.

**Disclaimer:  
**_- _Don't own Arthur or Eames, wish I did.  
- Don't own Inception, don't wish I did.

* * *

_"Someone call an ambulance! Tell them there are a man and two little girls badly hurt! Hurry!"_

_"What happened here?"_

_"I don't know! There was… something happened… and this man tried…"_

_"Is he awake?"_

_"I don't know." _

_"He saved them. He saved them."_

_His eyes fluttered open as he heard the voices. He ignored as best he could the sudden chaos and the shriek of sirens. The cacophony threatened to rip apart his already throbbing skull._

_"They're both okay, then?" _

_He could taste the blood as it crawled up his throat and muddled his words._

_"I think so. Look, help is on its way, all right? It's so close. Please, just hold on."_

_He tried to find his voice so that he could respond, but nothing came. Instead, he closed his eyes, an image of a dark-haired young man the last and only thing on his mind as the blackness consumed him._

Arthur is sitting on a couch in the dark, and that is all that he is doing. An abandoned coffee cup, half-empty and long since gone cold, rests on the small, wooden coffee table in front of him. For company, it has no newspapers, no magazines, no photos; only a menagerie of water stains and a single red die that refuses to land on anything but three. Arthur is completely awake, of that fact he is all too certain now, but he does not feel it. Honestly, he does not feel much of anything anymore. The emptiness reminds him of life before Eames. It reminds him of how easily he detached himself from places, from people, from memories. It should feel comforting, but all he feels is numb. The emptiness was never this bad before.

The apartment is sparkling clean, sterile, and blank. Not a single thing is out of place. This morning, before… just _before_, Arthur had set about the place, straightening the little things that bothered him, and the big things, too. No, not a single item in the entire apartment is out of its proper home. Not Eames's toothbrush, which is usually abandoned on the counter. Not Eames's dirty laundry, which is usually littering the bathroom floor. Not Eames's shoes, which are usually thrown haphazardly down the hallway. Not Sean Eames himself. No, nothing real remains. In fact, the whole place seems like something from a hastily forged dream - too perfect, too fake. The details are in place, but the feeling is wrong, if there is any feeling at all.

His phone buzzes on the couch beside him. It is Ariadne who is calling him, yet again, and he will not answer, yet again. She wants to check on him, to make sure he is all right. He has never been prone to suicidal tendencies, he wants to tell her, but he somehow doubts that those would be the reassuring words for which she has been searching. Arthur tries his best to not be selfish, to believe that he was not the only one that loved Eames and now misses him. However, some things are easier said than done, and Arthur cannot bring himself to speak aloud at all. He has a feeling that that does not bode well for the 'done' part. His phone finally stops vibrating and chimes once to announce a missed call. More than likely, there will be no room for new voice messages in his inbox, so his phone will not go off again until Ariadne calls again. He gives it five minutes.

Just as Arthur expects the phone to buzz, there is a knock at the door. For a split second, he nearly smiles. Relief swells his chest and his heart aches deeply, but he does not care, because Eames is _home_. That is why he can feel again at all. Then, realization comes crashing down and Arthur retches into the wastebasket at his feet. He hates the idea of the unsanitary area he is creating, but vomiting in the bathroom would require his getting up, and he just cannot risk seeing… anything.

Eames cannot be found in any particular place in this home, and that is because he is _everywhere_. Arthur assumes that the couch is safe, because if he stares straight ahead, he can see only a TV and a fireplace. He assumes that in this open space, where nothing lingers, he will not be able to sense the irreplaceable scent of tobacco, commingling gracefully with worn leather and the slightest hint of apple. He assumes that if there is nothing of Eames's staring him in the face, Arthur can pretend for just a little longer that his totem is defective and he can continue to wait for a kick that will never come.

He assumes that whoever is at the door will not be leaving any time soon. They have been knocking incessantly. This is no random passerby; no one but Cobb would be so persistent. Cobb knows the feeling of abandonment, the feeling of having the rug swept from under your feet in the blink of an eye and being helpless to fight it. He understands what Arthur is going through, but apparently, he does not understand that Arthur is not him. Arthur does not want comfort. Arthur wants to be left alone. Well, that is a lie. He wants to be with Eames. He wants this to be a dream, and he wants to wake up. Now. But he is not as thoroughly convinced, as Mal was, that this world is fake. In fact, today has proved to him just how real life can be, how fragile. Arthur will not be jumping from a ledge anytime soon. Then again, he inherited his mother's never-say-never attitude, so he has not entirely ruled out any one course of action, not yet, anyway.

Arthur pauses for a moment as he thinks of his mother, and how everyone that he loves leaves too soon. Then, he thinks of how he does not even have the luxury of having had a picturesque childhood to make up for the losses he has suffered. No, it has been a shitty life in general; it has been full of great moments, great feelings, great memories, certainly, but those gentle ghosts are all that remain. He hopes the bitterness he feels will not drown the happy memories until those too are worthless. He wonders if his dreams will be the same as his existence from now on, if his brain can now only compute in shades of grey and faded black and nothing else. No colors, no sounds, no smells, just blankness, emptiness. Or, maybe, in his dreams there would be places on the wall where the sun has not so completely bleached the paint, places where pictures used to hang and depict better days. Maybe there would be small mementos for him to cling to, shreds of something substantial. Or maybe there would be nothing.

* * *

**A/N:  
**- Review, please? :)


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N:  
****General:  
**- Wow! Eight reviews within thirty-six hours. That's pretty epic. I like you all a lot. :D  
- Chapter two! You'll hear the story (which isn't about a car crash, per se) in chapter three, which I am writing now. It's breaking my heart to write it, but write it I must. Besides, I've got plenty of HAPPY ArMes stories I can work on. Yay! :D

**Warnings:  
**- Character death.  
- A few cliches, probably.  
- OOC.

**Disclaimer:  
**- Speaking of things it breaks my heart to write, I do not own Eames, or Arthur, or Dom Cobb. Nor do I own Tom Hardy (but he is on my Christmas list... hint hint! ;D), or Joseph Gordon-Levitt, or Leo DiCaprio, or Chris Nolan, or Inception, or any other related person/thing.

* * *

Eventually, whoever is at the door stops knocking, but Arthur knows better than to hope they've given up. The doorknob twists slowly, and he wonders when Cobb became so out of touch that the most obvious thing he could have done is his last resort.

"Damn it, Arthur. Why can't you answer your phone?" Cobb is chastising him in a familiar tone, but the worried edge to the words is something new. The door clicks shut and Cobb's footsteps sound on the wood floor. They echo in the silence that is all too loud. "Or your door, for that matter?"

Arthur cocks his head slightly towards the voice, but he continues to stare at the fireplace and ultimately says nothing. He wavers involuntarily as Cobb sits down beside him on the couch, wiggling the cushions gently. From the corner of his eye, he sees Cobb reach out gingerly, as if to grasp Arthur's shoulder, but the man stops short and brings his hand to his own forehead. It lingers for a moment before Dom runs the hand down his face and sighs. In that sound, Arthur hears the gentle subjacent plea; _I have lost one friend today, Arthur, I do not want to lose another._ But it changes nothing, not today.

"I didn't pound on your door for two whole minutes just to watch you stare down a fireplace grate, Arthur."

Arthur looks at him now, but only briefly. Before he can think too much about just how intently Cobb is studying him, searching for some kind of mirror image, he is certain, Arthur turns away again. His small gesture is apparently enough for Cobb, who visibly relaxes into the sofa after realizing that Arthur is not actually catatonic, that he can rule his personal reconnaissance mission a success. Still, Cobb continues to speak, though his words lack a certain anxiety. He never could stomach an empty silence.

"Ariadne wants me to call her as soon I leave. I guess I can tell her that you're all right. Well, as close to all right as you could be right now. She really is worried about you, Arthur. So is Yusuf. Hell, even Saito called me this afternoon. I guess the news traveled quickly. Always does in these situations…. You know, Arthur, they're hailing… him… as a hero."

At this, something in Arthur snaps. Before he himself knows what is happening, he is on his feet. Dizziness hits him in a wave and knocks him gracelessly back to the couch. He feels the need to vomit again, but he ignores it, though it does keep him from a second attempt at standing. He ignores everything but the rage that is brewing down below, because if he loses focus, the volcano is going to erupt, and Arthur does not know that it will ever stop.

"Arthur? Arthur. What's wrong?"

Arthur does not answer, will not answer. Not because it is a stupid question, though he knows Cobb does not mean it as such. Nor is it because it would take him a lifetime to tell Cobb all the things that are _wrong_ today, and it is definitely not because one wrong thing eclipses all others and Cobb already knows what it is. Arthur leans forward to sink his forehead into his own waiting hands, elbows on knees and eyes to the floor. Cobb does not ask again, but he is on high alert once more. It is obvious that he is struggling to maintain the minute distance between himself and his point man, and it is likely he is only doing so because he knows that is what Arthur thinks he needs. Some small part of Arthur, a very young and very scared part, wishes that Cobb would say the hell with what Arthur wants and just embrace him. There is a part of Arthur that needs someone to lie to him and tell him that it will soon be all right. But, Arthur keeps that part locked away because the part that controls him does not want to be touched ever again. Not unless it's by hands that should feel so much more rough than they actually do, hands that know every line of his body better than he knows them himself, hands that-

"Please leave, Dom," he whispers to the floor. This is the first thing Arthur has said in hours. The words feel harsh and uncomfortable in his dry throat, and he realizes that he much prefers silence. Speaking is just one more thing that feels wrong today.

"Arthur-" the man begins.

"Please," Arthur begs, and it sounds so much weaker to his own ears than he would care to admit. Cobb sighs heavily again, but after a moment's consideration on his part, the cushions spring back to their original form. Arthur can hear the snapping in Cobb's back as he stands and wonders when they all began to get so old that they creak as they move, like wooden stairs in a rundown home.

Cobb says nothing as he first begins to move towards the door, but Arthur senses him lingering just as he is about to step into the hallway.

"You can be saved from limbo, Arthur, if you're dreaming…. But it isn't so easy to resurface if you hit rock bottom while you're awake."

Before the words have completely sank in, the door is closing behind Cobb, and Arthur is alone again. He is not sure if that is as comforting as he imagined, but he makes no moves to retrieve his friend. Instead, he sits on the couch, just as he did before; unmoving, unfeeling, but not unthinking. No, that will never be possible, no matter how hard he tries.

No matter how hard he tries, Arthur will never be able to stop replaying this day in his head. He will remember waking up to the smell of slightly over-brewed coffee and perfectly fried eggs, and from now on, his heart will break a little more every time he encounters either scent. He will remember kissing a stubbly Eames good morning and laughing at the man's apron, at how at-home the seemingly undomesticable man seemed in their kitchen. Arthur will remember telling Eames goodbye, but his brain will likely skip like a scratched CD over the next few hours. Then, it will come to a screeching halt, as will his heart, when he remembers how shrilly the phone rang and how desolate the voice on the other end sounded. He will remember the pressure of the pit in his stomach when that same voice promised bad news, and the way-

Arthur stops himself here. He puts every shred of effort possible into not continuing with his current train of thought. When it does not seem to be working, when the words '_bus_' and '_fire_' begin to seep in, he stands slowly and starts to pace. When the words '_internal bleeding_' and '_trauma_' find their way into his thoughts, Arthur makes his way to the kitchen. He lingers not, and he keeps his eyes to the floor as best he can. Finally, he reaches the cabinet closest to the refrigerator. He swings it open and plunges his hand in, searching for some liquid relief, something so out of his character that he hopes it's a therefore infallible solution. Once back in the living room, he realizes that he has forgotten to grab a glass. He doubts he will mind swigging straight from the bottle once he gets started.

* * *

**A/N:  
****- **Thanks a TON for all the reviews of the first chapter. Please keep them coming! :D  
- If you reviewed already, I will be replying to you. It just takes a while, as I am internetless. :'(


	3. Chapter 3

**A/N:  
****General:  
****-** Chapter three! Thanks for reading, reviewing, favoriting, and adding to your story alerts. :)  
- There is hardly any dialogue in this (which is why it appears less lengthy)! How's that for detail, **Blackbirdox**? ;D  
- Review! Please? :3

**Warnings:  
**- Alcohol use(s). Not just implied, but very much there. It's gonna be all up in your KoolAid.  
- Eames is still dead. I am a horrible person, I know.

**Disclaimer (sigh):  
**- Nolan is the man. I keep hoping to find Tom Hardy stashed away with my belongings, but I've had no such luck. JGL is nowhere to be found either... FML.

* * *

The whiskey smoothly burns its way down Arthur's throat. He revels in the feeling, at first, but then, even the lingering sensation of heat turns to numbness, neither hot nor cold. Still, he drinks until the bottle is empty, until his stomach should be aching, and he should be emptying its contents wherever he happens to aim. He drinks until there is nothing left, not even the smallest drop. His throat hurts slightly, but the lump there is gone for now, and for that he is immensely grateful. For a few minutes at a time, Arthur can breathe again. It is a glorious feeling. Still, though, the alcohol has not worked as magically as he had somehow hoped. His heart has not bound itself back together.

Arthur tries his best to right the empty bottle that he has discarded on the coffee table in front of him, but it refuses to stand. So, he lays it down and spins it flat on its side. It twirls and twirls, and for a moment, he is tempted to think of this bottle as his new totem. Maybe he is dreaming after all. Then, the bottle slows, and Arthur stands and walks away before he has to watch it come to a total stop.

He walks into the hallway without a destination in mind. His body knows the route, though, and though he does not plan to, he ends up in their bedroom. _His _bedroom, now. Arthur leans into the doorway, not daring to go much farther, and flicks on the light. He silently surveys the room he has taken for granted all along, taking in every detail, things he has never even noticed previously. When his eyes have roamed over every other inch of the room and they finally reach the armoire that holds Eames's shirts, some guiding force takes over, some guiding force that does not cringe at the inner use of a name rather than vague mentions. Again, he is no longer acting of his own accord. He does not want to open the wooden door, does not want to breathe _Eames _in like oxygen, but his movements are unstoppable.

Arthur pauses in front of the wardrobe and places a hand on each handle. He takes a deep, preparatory breath, as if he expects some Narnian woodland creature to come at him from the other side, and swings the doors open simultaneously. A jumble of shoes falls at Arthur's feet, and he very nearly smiles at the thing that would have caused him an aneurysm a week before. Something formerly hidden beneath the shoes catches his eye and he leans down to pick it up. His head swims at the sudden movement and he has to lean into the wardrobe to catch his balance. The smells of leather, tobacco, and apple fill his head and this is when he nearly breaks down. It is not the first time, though, and he knows it will not be the last.

Swallowing loudly, Arthur pushes the remaining shoes to the floor and retrieves the bottle that has been secretly tucked away for an indeterminable amount of time. He has no idea why this has been hidden, only that Eames was saving it for some important occasion. Then again, the forger never really needed a reason to celebrate, particularly when spirits were involved. The tag hanging from the neck of the bottle is no help; it merely reads 'To Arthur'. The handwriting is unmistakable, and the sight of the familiar curves of ink hurt Arthur much more than they have any logical right to hurt. He thumbs the words gently before tossing the bottle to the temporary safety of the bed. He will get to the scotch soon enough.

First, though, he brushes a hand gently against the row of shirts hanging in the armoire. A few of the shirts are sliding off their hangers, and few are buttoned primly and in no danger of falling - or being worn. No two shirts are arranged exactly the same way, and it is for this reason that Arthur has a slightly difficult time finding the hideous paisley shirt that was Eames's second favorite. He grabs it from the wardrobe and then shuts the doors. He refuses to think about the current location of Eames's most favorite shirt, and to keep himself from it, he thinks instead of how he also refuses to press the shirt close to him and simply inhale. He is not a gay cowboy, and he has smelled enough of Eames already. Instead, he unbuttons the shirt and pulls it from its hanger before sliding it on over his own shirt. Of course, he nearly drowns in the excess fabric, but the feeling is undiminished. This is the most comforted he has felt since Eames walked out their apartment door, though the two feelings cannot even be compared. This is simply a shade, a poor facsimile of the real thing, of his real lover. Still, it is better than nothing, and Arthur relishes in the moment as best he can. Soon, the scent will fade away. Nothing will ever again come close to the unique combination, and so Arthur must memorize it immediately, must be able to bring it to his senses long after it has dissipated.

When he thinks he finally has the mix committed to memory, he sits gingerly on the edge of the bed and turns the TV on with a press on the remote control. It is too late in the evening for anything of interest to be playing, and Arthur lands on a random news channel. He glances at the TV as he opens the bottle of Scotch beside him and takes a large swig. They are broadcasting footage of an overturned bus. Before Arthur's drunken brain can process exactly what he is seeing, he hears the name Jack Donnelly, and almost immediately recognizes this as Eames's most recently assumed identity. It clicks at this moment that he is seeing the same things that Sean last saw, but he ignores this thought as he tries to focus on the words of the newscaster whose situational indifference is painfully palpable.

_"… Unknown causes. Passengers were evacuated immediately, save for two little girls in the back of the bus. Shizuru Kuga, age eleven, was trapped by a falling suitcase when the bus flipped over. She died at Grace University Hospital this afternoon. Ms. Kuga and her sister, Natsuki, age eight, who is currently in critical condition at G.U.H., were on their way to school when the fire occurred this morning. Younger sister stood guard over older until the moment help arrived, and today, help came in the form of a man named Jack Donnelly, a random passerby turned hero, who dragged both girls out of the bus, just as its engine exploded. Not much is known about Mr.…."_

The anchor continues to drone on, but Arthur has stopped listening. He stares instead at the photo that has just materialized onto the TV screen. The photo is from Eames's ID card, and it looks completely official, though Arthur himself had taken the photo in front of a white photo screen in Cobb's basement. The look on Eames's face was priceless, a look that promised Arthur many delicious things, things were likely illegal in some countries, if only he would hurry up and _take the bloody picture_. For a moment, Arthur simply stares, transfixed and utterly unable to look away. Then, he remembers that he has the ability to freeze the frame, and he does just that with another press of the remote. It takes a few minutes for Arthur to notice the caption of the photo, but when he does, he recalls his earlier rage, and it takes hardly any time before he is again on his feet. This time, he does not topple back over. Instead, he walks to the TV and gets as close to it as he possibly can. He traces the digital outline of Eames's jaw gently, imagining that it is the real thing under his fingers instead. Then, he cocks back his arm and flings a fist at the charming bastard's face.

* * *

**A/N:  
****-** Please review? I'll give you cookies! Or Scotch, that is if Arthur has any left.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:  
****General:  
- **Chapter four! Woo! This story is flowing well, for now. I hope it continues.  
- This is my favorite chapter, I think.  
- This chapter is the same length as the others. Its paragraphs are just more compact.  
- No, I am not feeling overly depressed this week. I have just been having a creative week. No joke, I have twenty-five story ideas (including one crossover). The artists whose songs inspired/titled the works range from Ozzy Osbourne (one I am particularly excited to write) to Colbie Caillat; Annasays (a Christmas fic) to Jenny Owen Youngs (another favorite); Bobby Darin to Abba. Not all of these were thought up this week, of course, but a good fraction of them were. Yay for creative juices! :-P  
- Thanks for sticking with this story thus far. I hope it's up to your glorious standards. :D

**Warnings:  
**- Yeah, he's still dead. And, yes, Annacat, he will remain as such. :)  
- EMO like whoa.  
- Language.  
- Alcohol use.

**Disclaimer:  
**- Me no own; you no sue. :)

**Enjoy.**

* * *

He rams his fist into the TV four times, at least. The LCD screen does not shatter; no, it is nothing quite so dramatic. There is simply an indentation and a big splotch of black from which streaks of color bleed. In fact, Arthur half expects to see ink dripping from the screen as he steps back to survey his handy work. Instead, though, he sees a flickering behind the main point of impact, as if there is some injured thing with feathers there attempting to flee to a happier place. As if it was that simple.

Arthur looks again at the damage that he has caused, and he laughs bitterly when he sees that, though he has destroyed most everything else of the man's face, Eames's eyes remain untouched. Those eyes that have watched Arthur for_ so long _are watching him still, even now. He doubts they will ever stop, so Arthur does the only thing he can think of: he raises a bottle to those eyes, to those eyes and to all the things he has witnessed there.

"To you, Sean, and to the beautiful fucking anfractuosities of life," he proclaims. Then he takes a long swig from the bottle in his hand, never once breaking eye contact with the blue-green irises and molten black pupils that have been there with him for as long as he cares to remember, or maybe even longer. When he finally is able to tear his gaze from Eames's eyes, it is mere nanoseconds later that he is staring at the photo's caption, which has only barely escaped his wrath.

'The City's Unsung Hero', it reads.

_Hero._ The volcano is bubbling again, and, again, Arthur cannot put a name to the reason why. That does nothing to stop the words that come next.

"Ah, yes. They are calling you a hero, Mr. Eames. A _fucking hero!_" he yells. The sound almost scares him, but it does nothing to stop him from continuing, "Can you believe that? I mean, _you_? A hero? Oh, no," he intones. He moves closer to the TV once more, speaking directly to a man that is no longer here. His chest heaves, and a splash of alcohol lands on the carpet, the liquid spreading through the fibers in an obscenely fast manner. Arthur points a finger at those eyes that have been watching him from the very beginning. "You, Sean, are no hero. _You_ are an asshole. A suave, arrogant, British _asshole_. _That_'s what you are," he pokes the TV and tries his best to be defiant. He knows he cannot keep it up for long. Soon, the anger will fade, he thinks, though he doubts that flying through the stages of grief so quickly is healthy. Then again, when it came to Eames, Arthur seemed to be able to feel twice as much. Even now, he can feel the way his chest aches, and so he pauses, turns away from the broken screen, and bites his bottom lip.

Though Arthur would choose anger over sadness on any given day, his fire has been extinguished, suddenly and quietly. Placing the bottle of Scotch on the table nearest the TV, he turns and flops down on his own side of the bed. Arthur tries his best to ignore the hollow feeling within his chest, the ache behind his Adam's apple, the burning at the corner of his eyes; all of these things that threaten to shatter him open. He grabs Eames's favorite pillow, pulls it close to him, and he whispers to it, to the offcuts of Eames it holds, "That is what you _were_, before you went and got yourself killed like an idiot." Arthur can feel himself coming undone, can feel the last shreds of his dignity detach from their roots and begin to drift away as he calls his dead lover an idiot, but he cannot bring himself to put any less meaning into the words, especially since he feels the truth in them. He hates it.

He hates it, almost as much as he hates how easily different today could have been. Arthur cannot imagine walking down the street towards a nondescript office building, expecting nothing more of the day than tailing a potential mark. He cannot imagine strolling down a sidewalk and watching as a city bus crashes. He cannot imagine watching as screaming passengers pile haphazardly into the street. He most definitely cannot imagine running toward that same bus, climbing aboard it as the fire spreads. He does not want to imagine the sight of a crumpled and bloodied little girl clinging to her sister, who is not in much better condition. He does not want to imagine Eames fighting to retrieve the broken child and then depositing her safely in the arms of a stranger. He does not want to imagine the small hands clinging to Eames's jacket as he carries the second girl to safety, as well. Arthur cannot help but imagine as Eames enters the bus once more, double-checking that it is free of passengers. He cannot help but imagine Eames exiting the bus only for the last time, just as it explodes. He tries not to imagine the impact that Eames makes with the asphalt as the blast sends him into the air. Nevertheless, he can do nothing but watch it, hear it, feel the fire, smell the burning tires. In his mind, he is there at the scene, but he can do nothing to change the outcome. Every single time he replays his idea of the day, he is powerless. He is unable to find his voice and warn Sean against this stupid rescue mission, warn him that one of the girls will die, and the other is likely to follow the same path, warn him that the result is _so_ _unworthy_ of the sacrifice.

But, nothing ever changes. As he lies on the bed, clinging to a pillow sheathed in deep blue, it is too late. Eames is too far-gone, so Arthur just sobs. He cries for the first time that day, the first time in years, and he learns that _letting everything out _is like riding a bike: it might be simpler with regular practice, but you can never truly forget, even if you try. The sobs wrack his body and he buries his face even more deeply into the pillow. His eyes burn as tears pour from them, and he briefly wonders if he is crying saltwater or whiskey. He decides that maybe it is a combination of both, and he wishes that it were neither. He wishes that this were just a dream gone horribly wrong. He wishes that things were different, that life was not so unfair. He wishes that Eames would sweep in at any second and kiss his tears away. He wishes, as he falls asleep, that today had not actually happened. He wishes.


	5. Chapter 5

**A/N:  
****General:  
****- To those of you who have reviewed: I am so sorry if I haven't personally replied. Operating from a cell phone is such a pain, and it makes it nearly impossible to reply. Again, I truly apologize. I hate not responding to you guys, and I'm going to do my best to reply from here on out. **  
- I hope you guys like this chapter as much as the last. It's a little less angsty, and I'm worried that the tone won't be exactly the same, but I think it works nonetheless. It's been through about four rewrites, so I _hope_ it works. :)  
- **The bit from the last chapter about the cracked TV (**_Instead, though, he sees a flickering behind the main point of impact, as if there is some injured thing with feathers there attempting to flee to a happier place_)? **That was kind of a reference to the Emily Dickinson poem **("Hope is the thing with feathers/That perches in the soul"). **So, Arthur's hope = the feathered thing, and the TV = Arthur's soul/Eames. Make sense now? I thought it was a good metaphor. :D  
**- **My birthday is in three weeks!** Anyone who's feeling froggy should totally write me something Arthur/Eames as a present. Also, anyone who would like to, feel free to attempt an Eames POV of the accident. Could be pretty awesome. :)

**Warnings:  
**- Eames is still dead.  
- He's staying dead.  
- Ariadne might seem OOC, but I do think this is how she would react. Sorry if you do not enjoy my version of her.

**Disclaimer:  
**- I've had a heck of a week; please don't make me say this again.  
- FINE. THEY ARE NOT MINE. D:

* * *

Arthur Sims is a logical person. Reason and surety are his anchors, his roots. However, when he first wakes to the sounds of breakfast being made, he thinks for a miraculous moment that he has merely dreamed of his breakdown and the preceding events. He thinks that he will walk into the kitchen and that he just might find Eames there, utterly excelling at all things domestic, despite the forger's… well, _everything_. However, two important things seem out of place in this possible reality, the one where everything is as it should be, and these two simple factors wail at Arthur's brain relentlessly, refusing to let sleeping dogs lie, refusing to let Arthur's illusion of normalcy survive.

The delicious aroma of freshly brewed coffee wafting through the air lacks its standard burnt edge. The coffee seems perfectly brewed, for a change, as it always does when Eames is out of town and Arthur is left to fend for himself; that small detail is the first to fracture this fragile façade. The second is the fact that his body aches, _all over_. The crack grows larger and the façade begins to wobble as Arthur does a mental check of his body, making certain that there is nothing physically destroyed. His head feels as though he has been hit by a train, twice. The knuckles of his right hand are bruised and he cannot even flex his hand without wincing. His throat feels like it has been scoured with acid and a cheese grater, and he can only imagine just how awful he will sound when he speaks. Then, there is the matter of his stomach, and-

And Arthur barely makes it to the bathroom before everything he consumed the night before is finding its way out of his body. He kneels in front of the toilet bowl gracelessly and prays that his insides will call a ceasefire and leave him in a state that bears some loose semblance to peace.

"Arthur?" a voice calls. It is not the voice he expects, and he starts at the sound. With this, the façade shatters gracelessly. Its shards bite at him angrily.

"Who's there?" The words come out even worse than he could have imagined.

A small figure peeks hesitantly around the corner of the bathroom, her long brown hair swept into a messy bun. She is wearing blue jeans and a red blouse, but there is something covering her body, and it takes Arthur a few moments to figure things out.

"Ariadne?" In his hungover and half-asleep state, the confusion weighs even more heavily upon Arthur's brain. He tries his best to figure out how she got there. When his mind comes up blank, he simply asks, "What are you doing here?" His voice cracks painfully at the end of the sentence and he winces as he coughs. He stands from the toilet, flushes it, and then walks to the sink. He washes out his mouth as Ariadne speaks, and he smoothes his hair over as best he can.

"Um, I…. Cobb called me right after he left last night. Well, after he left the apartment. He practically camped out in the hallway. I don't know what good it did, but…. Look, Arthur, I am sorry. I really am."

Arthur is silent for a moment. First, he is simultaneously grateful for and angry at Cobb. Next, something dawns on him. He turns to face Ariadne. He tries his best to keep his voice level, but even he hears the edge when he asks,

"_Why_ are you wearing his apron?"

"I… I just grabbed it out of the- I didn't know, Ar-"

"Take it off."

"I'm sorry, Arthur, I didn't mean-" she grabs at the grease-splattered cloth that is overwhelming her small frame and nearly loses her balance in her hurry. She takes off the garment and then holds it in front of her, looking ever the chastised schoolchild.

"I asked what you're doing here, Ariadne." Arthur does not quite intend to snipe at her, not now, but he cannot help the way that his words sound. No one is as sorry for the loss as he is, and hearing people pretend that they are is the worst kind of condolence.

"Cooking breakfast," she replies. "You must be starving."

Arthur thinks about telling her that she is wrong, but his stomach growls fiercely at the exact moment the thought crosses his mind.

"That's _not_ what I meant, Ari. Why are you-?"

"Cobb asked me to keep you company," Ariadne sighs. Arthur takes the apron from her hands and subtly presses it against his chest for a brief moment before he begins walking towards the kitchen to replace the apron on its hook.

"I don't want company," he states flatly. As he crosses the living room, he sees that Ariadne has closed the heavy drapes so that the sunlight does not bother his already pounding head. He makes a mental note to thank her for the gesture when he can, but he says nothing about it now.

"He told me you would say that…. But, Arthur, he has been where you are now. Don't you think he might know a thing or two about handling your grief?"

"Mal killed herself because of an idea that _he_ planted. Cobb can alleviate his guilt in some other way. I'm not going to be his new project. I'm not his _do-over_."

"Arthur. It is so not like that, and you know better than to even think it. Cobb cares about you, Arthur. He's worried. We all are."

Arthur hangs the apron on its hook, but he does not yet relinquish his grip on the stained cloth.

_I am not the one that is dead_, he thinks. _I am not the one that would run into a burning bus. I am not the one anyone should have had anyone worried._

The cloth slides from his hands as he sighs and turns on his heel. The gesture is quite fluid on the smooth tile floor of the kitchen.

"I appreciate the concern, Ariadne, but it's really not necessary." Arthur almost sounds like his old self, if only for a brief moment. He notices a slight lift in Ariadne's expression at his change in tone, as though she is suddenly relieved that he will not, in fact, jump from a window on her watch. Then, something dawns on him. It's been quite the morning for sudden insight.

"This is a suicide watch, isn't it? Cobb doesn't want me alone, just in case I decide to get creative. He doesn't want me kept company, he wants me to be watched."

"No, Arthur."

"That wasn't a question. Is Yusuf taking the next shift? Or have you all yet to draw straws?"

"It isn't _like_ that."

"Really?" he levels his best stare at Ariadne. She tries to hold his gaze. Arthur can see the stubborn resolve in her eyes, the way she is grasping at every bit of sincerity her soul contains, but eventually, she looks down at the ground, and he can tell that she is defeated and he is correct.

"You don't need to be alone during this, Arthur."

"The only thing I _need_, Ariadne, the _only_ fucking thing that I have _ever_ needed, is pretty permanently out of the picture as of yesterday! So, unless you have some magical way of fixing that, I suggest you get out of here before I change my mind about getting creative."

Arthur's head throbs mercilessly as he yells, and he hates to threaten the architect this way, but he's out of ideas of how to get rid of her. He wants…. Well, he will not be getting what he wants, but an empty apartment is the next best thing. For now, though, Ariadne is here, and she seems to be as unsure as he is on how to proceed with this… whatever this is.

As Arthur listens to the way his voice seems to echo in the dead silence, Arthur notes how scared the woman appears, and he almost regrets his harsh tone. They stand there beside the refrigerator for a long moment until breaking the silence is suddenly rendered unnecessary. A sudden knock on the door makes Ariadne start, and Arthur's reflexes have him turned towards the door before a second rap even has time to land.

_Cobb._

* * *

**A/N:  
****- **Reviews = love.  
- Annacat says that she will punch you if you think this story is dumb or cliched, so watch your back. ;D


End file.
